


If You Say This Love is the Last Time

by SadieHerondale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Because I suck, Derek is a Good Boyfriend, Derek is the BEST Boyfriend, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Hurt Derek, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Headaches & Migraines, I've created a monster, M/M, Pack Family, Scott is a Good Friend, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Stilinski Being an Idiot, Stiles Stilinski Is Bad At Feelings, Terminal Illnesses, True Mates, What Have I Done, a girl can dream right, because I always hurt Derek, but not in a bad way, in the background - Freeform, no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5459516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadieHerondale/pseuds/SadieHerondale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek sits a little apart from the rest of the group, but he's here and that's more than Stiles expected so he's really not complaining about it. He's not complaining about the barely-there ache in the back of his skull either, because he refuses to let a damn headache screw up his birthday. </p><p>"Erica, my foot's asleep, get off." It's Jackson.</p><p>"Erica, don't move. We're playing body-jenga and if you move this entire thing falls over," Isaac warns. </p><p>"But my foot!"</p><p>"No one cares, Jackson," the entire pack choruses.</p><p>Or, my Christmas present for anyone looking for angst because this hurts my soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Say This Love is the Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> _Try to find out_  
>  _What makes you tick_  
>  _As I lie down_  
>  _Sore and sick._  
>  _Do you like that?_  
>  _Do you like that?_  
>  _Something's getting in the way._  
>  _Something's just about to break._  
>  ~Breaking Benjamin, "Diary of Jane"
> 
> I put the major character death warnings in the end notes, in case you're interested.

 

 It's nearly two AM when Derek taps on his window, and Stiles is many shades of unhappy. He's working on something and nursing a migraine and the incessant _tap tap tapping_ is really not helping it any. Stiles groans and gets out of bed, opening the window. His skull throbs viciously as he whispers, "Hey lover. What's up?"

"We need--"

"Shhh." Stiles holds a finger to his lips. He can't see in the dark, but he knows Derek's eyebrows are in his hairline.

" _You're_ telling _me_ \--"

"Shhh." Stiles smacks his arm and winces at the jolt that sends through his nervous system (and to his brain, by default). "My head hurts and Dad's asleep. What do you need?"

Derek is silent for a moment before speaking much more quietly. "Brownies."

 _Huh?_   "Derek. My love. Light of my entire life. It's too fucking early for baking. Come back in a few hours." Stiles reaches over and stops the video app on his laptop.

"No, Stiles," he hisses. " _Brownies_. As in, tiny sprites."

That makes a lot more sense. Looks like Stiles has a Monster of the Week assignment. _But the last one just ended yesterday,_ he whines mentally. _Like, literally six hours ago. Can't I just take a break?_

He sighs because nope. No rest for the wicked. Or the Stiles. He grabs his laptop and sits on the bed, wincing at the backlit screen (he was more used to it before, but now it's just obnoxious). He reaches over for the Tylenol on the nightstand and pops a couple before braving the light again. The mattress sinks as Derek sits beside him and picks up the bottle. He looks slightly alarmed; at least as close as Derek Hale ever gets to alarmed. His eyes widen fractionally and his eyebrows raise in a way that's not quite incredulous but not quite exasperated.

"Didn't you just get this two days ago?" he mutters.

Stiles doesn't shrug. It would jostle his head too much, and anyway, he's not gracing that with a response. The fact that Derek is in here so often that he can tell when Stiles is buying painkillers is a little creepy. Especially since Derek hasn't been in here with his knowledge in three days.

He sends Derek the _not-Wikipedia-or-brownie-recipes_ -files he's able to find on the first three pages of Google and makes a mental note to look deeper into the matter later, when it doesn't feel like knives in his skull when he looks at LED screens.

"There. If you need help accessing the files, have Isaac do it for you, old man." Stiles closes the laptop. _Blessed darkness._ "Can I go back to sleep now?"

"Not until you tell me what's wrong with you."

Stiles wants to roll his eyes, but he tried that a few hours ago and it hurt like hell. "I have a minor headache, Derek. It happens to us humans all the time. It's not that big a deal, should be gone in the morning if you'll just _let me sleep_."

Before he has a chance to flinch away, Derek has a hand on his forehead and the pain is leeching away so quickly it leaves him almost dizzy.

"Jesus, Stiles." Derek sounds a little winded. "That was _minor_?"

He nods sleepily and curls up on top of his sheets, suddenly tired in a way he never is until a migraine fades. "'ve had 'em f'r years. Get used to it... 'fter a while..."

He doesn't realize he's asleep until he wakes up.

**~oOo~**

_**D: Pack meeting tonight at seven. Don't be late.** _

_**ST: kk** _

_**D: For god's sake Stiles, use proper grammar.** _

_**ST: nuh uh srry sourwulf** _

_**D: No you're not.** _

_**ST: lolnope but u luv me nyway**_

_**D: That's true but really not the point here, Stiles.** _

_**ST: Sh. Goin 2 sleep now. Luv u sourwolf, c u 2nite** _

_**D: You're ridiculous. Just be there, okay?** _

**~oOo~**

_**SC: bro ware r u dereks freaking tf out**_

_**ST: nt moving** _

_**ST: *not** _

_**SC: why. dude theres some kinda demon fary butlers or smthing whyre u not here** _

_**ST: wtf why do you think scot** _

_**SC: ...** _

_**SC: want me to grab you smthing on my way home** _

_**ST: nothr thing of advil or somethin** _

_**SC: what happened to the last one** _

_**ST: scotty wtf do u thnk** _

_**SC: ill grab 2** _

_**ST: my hero <3**_

 

"Tell him that when I said don't be late, I didn't mean don't show up at all."

Scott resists the urge to pound Derek's head into the wall. "He wanted to."

"Then why didn't he?" Derek crosses his arms. "It took me two weeks to get through all the crap he sent me on brownies and boggarts. He should have been here to fill in the blanks."

"Look, can we do the whole 'pissy Derek' thing later? I have to get to the drug store and I'm really not in the mood to deal with you right now." Scott grabs the keys and runs a hand through his hair.

"Tell Stiles not to OD on painkillers," is all the other man says before Scott walks out the door.

 _I'm not gonna **tell** him anything. He might kill me_ , Scott thinks. Though he does find it interesting that Derek dropped the asshole-facade when he figured out what's going on. So far, he and Scott are the only ones that know about Stiles' headaches. 

Ten minutes later, he's walking into Stiles' room as quietly as possible. As he expected, the lights are out, and the blackout curtains are drawn shut. Stiles is bent over the toilet in the adjacent bathroom, breathing heavily. His heart is racing much faster than it should be, but Scott expected that. Stiles retches. Dry heaves really, expelling nothing more than stomach acid and bile because Scott is sure he hasn't eaten today. The smell burns his nose, but he sets down the bottles of Advil and kneels next to Stiles, rubbing circles on his back gently. He knows what'll happen if he initiates too much contact.

Stiles leans into his touch briefly before groaning and bending over the toilet bowl again. He looks awful. He's paler than normal, almost pasty-looking, and sweat plasters his hair to his forehead. There are bright spots of red on his cheeks-- fever. Dark purple splotches shade the area under his bloodshot eyes. He's burning up, but he's shaking so badly that he's almost vibrating. The worst part is, this is _normal_ for a bad day. Stiles doesn't have the flu, he's not dying; he's simply in so much pain that his body is fighting itself.

When it looks like Stiles has emptied everything he could possibly have left in his body, Scott grabs him under the shoulders gently and lifts him to his feet. Stiles is limp, almost putty in his hands.

"No," he groans quietly. "No, Scotty, the toilet is my friend." 

Scott grins. If Stiles can manage a joke, he can manage some soup. Scott's mom had him stop by the house and pick some up; they're both aware of how bad Stiles' migraines tend to get, and they help when they can. 

"Come on, smartass," he mutters, picking his friend up carefully. "Let's get you to bed."

"Pills?"

"Not until you eat something," Scott says. "You'll make yourself sicker otherwise."

Stiles snorts in disbelief, then groans as the vibrations rattle his skull.

**~oOo~**

They deal with the boggarts/brownies by Wednesday. Apparently they didn't appreciate the fact that Derek and Isaac don't drink alcohol and got pissy. Apparently, that's a thing. But it's fixed with a bottle of seriously expensive wine and some milk (because again, apparently that's a thing) and life can go on as usual. After the boggarts came the cockatrice, which is basically a basilisk with wings (as if a giant snake with Death Eyes needs wings to be more terrifying, Jesus), and then the Crocotta. That one was interesting, because it's basically a wolf-dog hybrid with unbreakable teeth. Scott names it Bruce and keeps it as a pet. 

Stiles decks him. Almost breaks his hand doing it, too, and to no avail.

Bruce remains a McCall. Because apparently, _that's a fucking thing._

Bruce and the rest of the pack come to Stiles' eighteenth birthday party, which basically consists of an Avengers marathon (because Lydia hasn't seen them and he loves her too much to allow such torment to continue) and a puppy pile. Derek sits a little apart from the rest of the group, but he's here and that's more than Stiles expected so he's really not complaining about it. He's not complaining about the barely-there ache in the back of his skull either, because he refuses to let a damn headache screw up his birthday. 

"Erica, my foot's asleep, get off." It's Jackson.

"Erica, don't move. We're playing body-jenga and if you move this entire thing falls over," Isaac warns. 

"But my foot!"

"No one cares, Jackson," the entire pack choruses. 

Stiles is somewhere between Boyd and Isaac and Scott, and he's not able to move much. He's surprised to find that that doesn't bother him. It's probably because he can watch Derek from here and see the screen at the same time.

He smirks at Stiles and raises an eyebrow. "You look comfortable."

"You don't."

Derek shrugs, but doesn't deny it. Stiles knows Derek is a cuddler, so he's never been able to figure out his aversion to pack puppy piles. It's probably just some weird Derek thing; it's not that big a deal, so he's always left it alone. He knows Derek is gonna make it up to him in one-on-one cuddles later anyway. He turns his attention back to the screen. They're halfway through Captain America, and there's a lot more bingeing in the near future. 

The headache isn't bad enough to really bug him for a few days, and the movie marathon goes off without a hitch. The entire pack stays overnight (no one sleeps, of course) and they all head home after breakfast in the morning. Stiles sends Isaac home with one of his newest favorites: cheesecake brownies. Derek stays behind and Stiles gets his cuddles. He even manages to get Derek to watch Iron Chef America with him. When he starts seeing two of Bobby Flay, he closes his eyes and leans into his boyfriend, who willingly lets him. 

"You okay?"

Stiles nods. "Just tired. Your pack wore me out."

He listens to the tv until that gets boring and Derek's heartbeat lulls him to sleep.

**~oOo~**

"I'm not going to say I told you so," Derek mutters, carrying Stiles up the stairs to his room.

"Shut up," Stiles says, barely audible even to him. " 's not like I was mauled."

 _No, but you may as well have been,_ Derek thinks. Stiles collapsed in the middle of a battle with a wyvern, seriously terrifying Derek. The battle was over quickly after that, and Stiles keeps insisting that he's fine when he's clearly not.  _I told you not to come, you stubborn ass. Now look what it got you._

Granted, he didn't get hurt in the traditional sense, and he swears up and down he doesn't have a headache. He just collapsed for literally no good reason and boy is Derek glad Stiles is human because he is  _freaking the fuck out_. Stiles wasn't lying, either; Derek tried taking the pain away, only to discover that there wasn't much there, and it's centered in the area where Stiles hit his head when he fell. 

He puts the boy to bed and stays in the room. It's less for Stiles' wellbeing and more for his wolf, who's all but tearing itself up trying to help its mate. He's glad he stayed, though, at around three AM when Stiles whimpers. Derek was dozing, drifting off slowly, but he's on full alert. His wolf claws at his psyche.

 _**Mate. Mate unhappy. Fix mate. FIX MATE DAMMIT.** _

Stiles wakes up slightly and whimpers a little louder. Derek can sense his pain, but not where it's centered; he doesn't know what to do. As far as he can tell, it's a headache but it could be a phantom pain or him sleeping wrong or any number of things.  _ **The fuck does it matter?  Fix mate.** **Simple.**_ Or not so much, Derek knows. Stiles is stubborn and if he finds out Derek is leeching his pain without "consent" (Stiles' way of saying _'it hurts to much for me to feel guilty'_ ) Derek knows he'll get an earful about how it should be his choice and Derek needs to wait next time and all the other crap that's gonna sound suspiciously like a sex talk.  _ **Fix. Mate. Mate. Hurting. Stop being idiot.**_ He caves and lays his hand on Stiles' forehead gently. He reaches out through the contact and pulls the pain up though the black veins into his own head. He can't help the small gasp that escapes him. Most regular humans would be going out of their _minds_ with pain this awful, but Stiles doesn't even wake up entirely, just shifts and whimpers until the pain is gone, then goes back to sleep. _**Mate is strong. Fixed mate. Better. Strange pain. Different.**_ **  
**

For once, Derek and his wolf are in agreement. That pain wasn't there a few hours ago; it has nothing to do with the wyvern. There's something _off_ about it, but it's gone too fast for him to identify. He doesn't quite know what to make of it. It's been a few months since he found out about Stiles' headaches, and he's the only one who's aware of his own panic about them. Stiles insists that they aren't a big deal because  _"I'm incapacitated for a little while, so what? If someone wants to kidnap me bad enough, it's not gonna matter if my head hurts or not and you know it."_  

Which of course makes Derek's anxiety worse. 

Scott, for his part, shares Derek's opinions, but knows better than to get in Stiles' way when he has his mind set on something. The only time Derek asked about it, he was met with a  _"Yeah, it's kind of the furthest thing from okay, but what are you gonna do? He's_ Stiles, _he's not going to just decide to start gong to a doctor after ten years of this crap. For all intents and purposes, he should be in a hospital and he knows it, but he's a stubborn asshole."_ And that was the end of it. The rest of the pack doesn't even know there's anything wrong, per Stiles' wishes. He doesn't want to be the breakable human, which Derek understands. 

What really terrifies Derek, though, is that Scott is still the only one who's seen "the bad days." The days when Stiles actually acquiesces to his body's needs and doesn't move for no other reason than because he physically can't. The days when he doesn't eat or sleep because the pain is so intense that he'll just end up hunched over a toilet. The days he doesn't shower because the sound of the water hitting the tile is like, quote, "a million tiny sledgehammers on his brain." If the pain he's been taking from Stiles these past eight weeks doesn't even amount to a "bad day," what  _does?_

His wolf is going insane. Hell,  _Derek_ is going insane. He can't provide for his mate and isn't in the loop as to how to even attempt to try. It's a constant annoyance that's becoming less of an annoyance and more a legitimate strain on his sanity. 

"Der?" Stiles mutters from under his mound of blankets. Derek snaps out of his reverie and looks up. "Why're there two of you?"

"You might have a minor concussion," he says roughly. He knows Stiles knows the difference between him being an ass and him being protective, so he's not worried about his tone of voice right now. "You hit your head pretty hard on the way down."

Stiles hums, not worried either. Derek wonders what it means that  _having a concussion_ isn't much of a cause for worry anymore. Probably nothing good.

He sighs and runs a hand through Stiles' hair. "What was all that about?"

The mound of blankets shifts when Stiles sits up. It takes him just a second too long to focus on Derek, but he does. "I don't know. The last thing I remember is hitting my head on concrete and watching you go all apeshit on the wyvern. Very sexy, by the way," he adds with a wink. "Ten out of ten, would watch again."

"So watching me kill things is what gets you off. Remind me again why I'm with you?"

"Because you _looove_ me," Stiles bats his eyes, but the effect is lost when he can't seem to focus on Derek, who is, as fore-mentioned,  _freaking the fuck out_.

He holds up four fingers. "Stiles, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Um... Nine? But wait, it's just one hand... Shit, am I dreaming? I mean at least it's not a nightmare but for the love of god--"

Derek covers Stiles' mouth gently. "You're awake, just shaken up a bit. You've definitely got a concussion, though. Next time I tell you not to go out, just listen, alright?" He knows it's futile, but he's going to _try_ , at least.

Predictably, Stiles frowns when his mouth is uncovered. "Not gonna happen. You go out, I go out. Them's the rules. And speaking of rules, I have a concussion. So why, exactly, am I not in pain?"

It's going to be a long night.

**~oOo~**

Melissa is really pissed at him the next day; he has an appointment and wasn't supposed to do anything strenuous yesterday. Oops. Scott throws him under the bus. Stiles doesn't even blame him, because an angry Melissa is a force of nature and anyway, he  _did_ warn Stiles last night.

"A  _concussion_ , Stiles?" It's always unnerving to see cool, collected Mama McCall get angry. It happens so rarely. "You  _know_ better than to try and do things like that."

"Yes, Melissa," he says stonily, because as terrifying as she is to Scott, she's really no match for some of the things he's been up against and what is she going to do, really? "Because I went out last night  _planning_ on collapsing and hitting my head on the sidewalk. Not, you know, as backup so that your son didn't die trying to protect the people in this town. Because I really want to die that much _faster_ , right?"

Both she and Scott flinch at this.

He knows he's being unfair, but his entire life is one heaping bucket of unfair and he has one hell of a headache and he hates hospitals and he's generally having a really bad day and can't bring himself to give a single shit right now. He had a massive argument with Derek this morning when he mentioned his doctor's appointment and that Stiles doesn't want him there. He honestly could care less about their feelings right now, because he knows the next few days are going to be worse than hell for him, knowing that Derek is angry with him and he can't do anything about it; he's going to be here for at least a few days. 

Melissa just leads him into his room silently. They go through the motions, getting him into a hospital gown and hooked up to a gazillion different wires and machines. 

"Stiles, is something going on that you aren't telling me about?" she finally asks quietly. "I've only ever seen you like this when something is going on with Derek."

"Am I a bad boyfriend?" he blurts out. It's a question he hasn't even been able to voice to himself, much less anyone else, but it's been weighing on him since his last appointment and somehow he can't stay angry at her for asking.  _Must be a mother thing._

Melissa lets out a breath. She knows what he's talking about and Stiles knows that she's going to be brutally honest. "Sweetie, I think you have his best interests at heart, but I don't like that you haven't told him yet."

Stiles looks at the cheap tiling on the floor. "So I'm a good person but a bad boyfriend. Hoo-fucking-ray."

Melissa is quiet for a while as she does a few checks on all the machines and makes Stiles lay on the crappy bed. "Not exactly. That poor boy has been hurt so many times, and in so many different ways, I think you're a wonderful boyfriend for trying to protect him. The fact still remains that he's... he's going to find out, sweetie, one way or the other." She's fighting back tears and Stiles reaches out to hug her. It's weak, but well-meaning. Melissa returns it for a moment before letting go. "Alright, alright, you," she says, wiping her eyes. "I have a job to do." 

"Then go do it, don't let this delinquent stop you." 

Melissa ruffles his hair, writes a few more things down on his charts, and leaves Stiles alone with his thoughts. 

**~oOo~**

_**D: Pack meeting tonight at eight, plan on staying the night. Let Stiles know.** _

_**SC: Stiles cant mak it** _

_**D: Why can't he make it this time?** _

_**SC: um dude he's at the hspital rmembr** _

_**D: Still?** _

_**SC: ...shit** _

_**SC: uh yeah hes under obsrvation** _

_**D: What aren't you telling me, Scott?** _

_**SC: nothing** _

_**D: I don't even need to hear your heartbeat to be able to tell you're lying. What aren't you telling me?** _

_**SC: ...** _

_**SC: hes gonna b there 4 a few more days** _

_**SC: Derek?** _

_**SC: Derek did u die** _

_**SC: fuck pls dont go to the hospital hes pissed enuf @ me** _

_**SC: at least get him sum fries itll get him in a bettr mood** _

_**D: Noted.** _

_**SC: U LITTLE SHIT** _

**~oOo~**

_**ST: IM GOING TO KILL YOU WTF I TOLD YOU TO MAKE SURE HE DIDNT COME HERE** _

_**SC: in my defense he was gona go nyway** _

_**ST: U HAD ONE FUCKING JOB** _

_**ST: ONE** _

_**ST: JOB** _

_**SC: ik ik just hear him outthen decide if u wanna tell him k?** _

_**ST: Scott this is Derek. Yes, I'm holding him down and took his phone and I will continue to until you answer my question. What, exactly, should he be telling me?** _

_**SC: uh** _

_**SC: rely not my place 2 say der** _

_**ST: @ least u can do something right** _

_**SC: whatd u do** _

_**ST: i didnt ur mom did she threw him outta the room** _

_**SC: shit** _

_**ST: srsly tho** _

_**ST: do u think i should tell him** _

_**ST: idk if i want 2 or not** _

_**SC: u should** _

_**SC: tbh stiles u shudve awhile ago** _

_**ST: ik just** _

_**SC: i kno** _

_**SC: itll be okay bro** _

_**ST: shiiiiit fries r not my frend** _

_**SC: if they giv u the anti nausea med jsut fucking take it** _

_**ST: but thn i get sleepy** _

_**SC: wud u prefer sleep or the plastic box my mom has u puking in rn** _

_**ST: fu** _

**~oOo~**

Derek turns his phone onto airplane mode. Scott isn't responding to his texts and the rest of the pack are blowing up his phone about why the pack meeting is suddenly cancelled. He has almost no information on Stiles or what is actually going on; all he knows is that his mate is sitting in the room across the hall, hooked up to six machines.  _He had a minor concussion. Why is he still here, why is he being observed?_

His wolf is pacing, clawing at him from the inside.  _ **Mate hurt. Fix. Mate hurt us. Fix mate. Then mate tell us. We fix.**_ He's close to driving himself mad when he hears a choked sound from inside, followed by a rather disgusting _splat_ sound and an acrid odor that can only be stomach acid. Stiles whispers his name and that's his limit. He gets up abruptly, startling one of the nurses, and walks into Stiles' room without asking. 

He honestly wishes he had asked. 

Melissa is running her fingers through Stiles' hair as he vomits into a bin. The machines are going insane, monitoring his elevated heart rate and blood pressure. The smell is an assault to his nostrils but the sight is... the sight is awful. Stiles is pale and shaky and he's sweating profusely. He smells like pain and misery. Melissa glances up at Derek for a nanosecond before turning her attention back to Stiles, who's whimpering quietly.  _ **Mate hurts. Fix mate.**_  

_No. Not until I know what's wrong._

_**Fix anyway.** _

_I can't fix a problem I don't know._

"I know sweetie," Melissa murmurs, entirely oblivious to Derek's crisis. "I know it hurts but you've gotta let it happen."

Stiles chokes and gags, catching his breath for a moment before bending over the bin again. He groans, but Melissa keeps talking. "That's it, Stiles. I've got you, just let it out."

 _"Hurts,"_ he manages to groan. Derek lets out an involuntary whine, because now he knows what a "bad day" looks like, and there aren't words to describe it. Melissa's gaze snaps to him and she glares in an obvious  _shut up or get out_ before going back to comforting Stiles.

"I know it does, sweetie, I know. It'll all be over tomorrow, I promise. We just have to get through today, okay?" She cards her fingers through Stiles' hair and he nods a little.

_Tomorrow? What happens tomorrow that I don't know about?_

Derek texts Scott his question, not expecting a real reply and a little surprised when he gets one.

_**SC: shriff mite tell u idk tho** _

_**D: Okay.** _

But he's not going to leave now. There sheriff is at work and if Derek knows anything for sure right now, it's that he's going to come by after his shift. Melissa is still murmuring to Stiles, who's dry heaving. He's shuddering with the force of the spasms rocking through his body.  _ **Fix mate now. Answers later.**_ Derek gives in to his wolf and does the only thing he can: he puts his hand gently over the back of his boyfriend's neck, over the little scar that's been there as long as they've known each other, and pulls the pain.

 _Holy mother of hell._  For the few seconds that it takes for his body to heal, he's in _agony_. The entire back of his head feels like ten cinderblocks on it; he almost prefers the pain of breaking a bone or two or three because this is pressure from the inside out, like a person is leaning all of their weight onto needles at the top of his spine all the way up to the top of his head. And then it's gone. The veins on his arms disappear.

Gradually, Stiles calms down. His chest stops heaving and the full-body shivering fades, and he can catch his breath. His heartbeat is still erratic, but it's slower. Less worrying. He looks up at Derek blearily.

"We just... just had this discussion... didn't we?" he says between breaths. "About... consent?"

Melissa chuckles. "Just say thank you and go to sleep, sweetie, before I have to get you some albuterol."

Stiles winces. "Ugh. That stuff... It's shit." 

Melissa steers Derek out of the room with somewhat terrifying efficiency before he even knows what's going on. As soon as the door closes, Melissa looks at him with a strange mix of sympathy and exasperation. It's definitely odd, because it's a look he's never actually seen before; Scott couldn't pull it off if he tried. 

"Look, Derek--"

"What the hell is going on with Stiles?" Derek demands. 

"I can't tell you that. Patient confidentiality, you know." The woman looks apologetic. "John might tell you, but it's really up to Stiles. For right now, I need you to either go home or stay here and support Stiles without asking questions. He's got a huge day ahead of him tomorrow."

Again with tomorrow. Derek isn't entirely sure he wants to know. "I'm not asking for specifics here, but how huge is huge?"

Melissa hesitates. "Surgery huge."

In the room, Stiles' breathing and heart rate has evened out. He's asleep.

It doesn't take long for the sheriff to show up in Stiles' room after his shift. Derek doesn't expect an actual answer from John, and he's not disappointed. 

"It's not my place to say," he manages through gritted teeth, as if he would actually  _love_ to tell Derek but something is keeping him from doing it. "He said he would tell you in the next couple of days, so just hold out that long."

 _Easier said than done,_ Derek thinks.  _It might be easier to just wait until Stiles wakes up and then ask him._

The lack of information is doing strange things to his thought process. He's coming up with a million worst-case-scenarios and psyching himself out in the process and  _jesus,_ is it always this annoying when he's the one being all cryptic with everyone else?

An hour later, Stiles wakes up. Derek is sitting in the window seat, playing a game on his phone when he hears the shift in his boyfriend's breathing. When he opens his eyes groggily, he turns his head toward Derek. His amber eyes widen in panic. "Oh _shit_."

 _ **Mate... scared. Mate scared of... us?**_ Derek's wolf howls in his head, but he manages to keep his focus. He needs answers.

**~oOo~**

It's not Derek he's afraid of-- it's the fact that he's _here_. It's that he's here and now he knows there's something going on and he knows Derek: the only way out of this is going to be the truth. 

Stiles' head doesn't hurt as badly anymore, which terrifies him even further because now Derek knows how bad the bad days really are. He has the puzzle pieces and Stiles thanks any and all fate-or-destiny-like-things out there that Derek is hopeless with Google because WebMD would have put them all together for him. Instead, at least he's the one that's going to be breaking the news.  _I'm not going to just hand out info though,_ Stiles thinks.  _I'll answer his questions but I'm not going to volunteer anything. God, I really am a terrible person. I don't deserve him._

He realizes that he's hyperventilating slightly and Derek looks a little concerned. 

"Shouldn't you..." he gestures toward the call button. 

Stiles shakes his head. Looks down at his hands. "Nah, it's normal. They'll just come in with albuterol and that stuff is nasty."

"Melissa mentioned that before. What is it, exactly?"

That was... not the question he was expecting, but he has an answer at least. "A respiratory steroid designed to stimulate the alveoli in my lung tissue... And I'm losing you. It's an inhaler." _More accurately, it's the chemical shit the inhaler makes me inhale, but whatever._

"That's all you had to say." Derek doesn't say another word, just goes back to his game. 

It's not a companionable silence. It's a torturous span of time where Derek just doesn't _do_ anything. Besides his fingers (which Stiles suspects are playing Piano Tiles and  _really,_ that game is out of date now but whatever), the man isn't moving, isn't showing a single sign of life. There's an ache in Stiles' chest because he knows what this is. This is Derek trying not to push him. He wants to know, wants to know everything Stiles will tell him, but he's not going to pressure him into giving any information he doesn't want to; he should know by now that that's a shitload of pressure in itself.

"Just ask the question," Stiles blurts out suddenly, startling both of them. "You know you're dying to."

Derek blinks at him. "How can I fix this?"

Stiles flounders. He expected  _what's going on, what aren't you telling me, how long has this been going on, why didn't you tell me sooner,_ and a million other questions, but  _how can I fix this_ was really not on the list.

"It's not... You can't fix this one, Der."

Something in his gaze hardens. "Why don't you tell me what  _it_ is and then I can decide whether or not I can."

It's not a question. It's not a request. It's not even an order. It's an ultimatum. It's  _tell me and I help, or don't tell me and I forget any of this ever happened._ And a few days ago, Stiles would have given anything for the second option but now... He doesn't think he could live with himself.

"I, uh, my doctor might be able to--"

"Stiles." Derek's tone brokers no argument. 

Stiles sighs. "I don't know where to begin. I'll tell you anything, but I don't even know where to start. Whatever you want to know, ask."

Derek looks a little put out, but it seems like he understands, to some extent. "What does this have to do with your headaches?"

"Everything. But you already knew that."

"I suspected, but..." the man shakes his head and lets out a breath. "Okay. Okay. Does Scott know everything?"

"Yes." Scott has always known. They were friends even before Stiles was diagnosed.

Derek doesn't look as if he expected any different. Stiles supposes that Derek has already done as much snooping as he ever does; he's probably tried to grill Scott, Melissa, and his dad without any luck. 

"Can it kill you." It's phrased as a question, but they both know it really isn't.

"No. It's  _going_ to kill me. I'm not entirely sure when, but it will."

That's clearly not what Derek wants to hear. "That's why you were so stubborn about being with me."

A tiny, pitiful noise escapes Stiles' throat; it's somewhere between a whimper and a groan. "I didn't want to hurt you more."

"Well fan-fucking- _tastic_ job there, sweetheart," Derek snaps. Stiles recoils, curling into himself as much as he can with the wires and tubes all over his body, but Derek doesn't back down. "I can take being hurt. Believe me. You don't get to decide what I can and can't take, especially when it comes to us. I wanted to be with you. I fucking  _need_ to be with you, Stiles. It's genetic, encoded into my DNA. You think I give a shit if you have some... some..."

"Brain tumor," Stiles whispers. His eyes feel tight, like overextended rubber bands and he blinks. A couple of tears run down his face, but it's a relief to finally say the words he committed to memory on his first-ever Google binge. "Meningeal hemangiopericytoma. A tumor of the brain stem."

Derek mouths the words silently. His expression shuts down in a way Stiles has only seen once: when he discovered that his uncle killed his sister. It's a look of intense horror and fear being forcefully shut down, and it shatters Stiles' heart into a million shards. This is what he's been trying to avoid all this time, what he was trying to avoid when he was "being stubborn" and refusing a relationship with Derek in the beginning. The universe seems to have a special hatred for Derek; every time he finds anything to care about, it's ripped away in the worst way possible. Every. Single. Time. 

Stiles just didn't want to be one of those things. He's going to die. He's always known that he's going to die. He just wants to go out with minimal damage when he does. And now that plan is out the window. 

"How long?"

There's only one thing he could be asking. "Eighty percent of people last ten years after diagnosis, and sixty percent last twenty. I was diagnosed when I was six." 

Derek doesn't say okay, and Stiles is grateful because it's  _not._  It's every form of not okay and they both know it. "Do I need to be worried about tomorrow?"

"No." He knows Derek will hear the truth in his heartbeat. "I've gotten this done every year since I was six. All it's going to do is shrink the tumor temporarily. It's like, five or six quick cuts and then I'm done."

Derek nods silently, his expression unreadable. All things considered, this is going better than Stiles could have hoped for. Derek hasn't asked any questions Stiles expected him to ask-- he hasn't even really gotten angry or disappointed. He's upset, but Stiles thinks that maybe they'll actually get through this.

**~oOo~**

Derek isn't going to make it through this. 

There's just no way. Stiles is being so... so  _matter of fact_ about all of this. Derek can't detect an ounce of fear or nervousness in his scent, and he's being given medical names and statistics about his mate's  _chances of survival_ and really? Fucking cancer? Of all the ways to go, this is not the one anyone should have picked for Stiles. Stiles goes down swinging or he doesn't go down at all; it's just who he  _is._  

 _ **Mate shouldn't go down at all,**_ his wolf snarls.  _ **Mate needs fixing. We need mate. Fix.**_

And to the wolf, it's as simple as that. Derek knows, though, that this isn't something he can fix without the Bite, and there's no way Stiles is going to take it. So for now, Derek does the only thing he can. He sits with Stiles and plays mindless games on his phone to keep his panic from showing on his face. He leaves when the nurses kick him out.

He tells his boyfriend he loves him before he leaves, because it's all he can do. In the morning, he wishes he did more.

He gets a call from John, which is strange enough in itself, but when he picks up and the Sheriff sounds panicked, his blood runs cold. "Derek, it's about Stiles."

"I'll be there in ten minutes." The call clicks out and Derek is out the door.

Scott looks at him in surprise when he shows up, panting. "How did you get here so fast?"

Derek just looks at him, noticing the tear tracks running down his face. "I ran."

Scott snorts, but its a sad, broken sound like a hollow echo of a laugh. It's an eerie sound for the boy and cements Derek's dread. "Of course you did."

Derek almost wants to snap and demand to know what's going on, but the Sheriff beats him to it. "He's alive."

Nobody breathes a sigh of relief. They're here for a reason, after all.

"There were some... Complications. With the surgery. Apparently his concussion was more serious than we originally thought and something went wrong in the operating room--"

Anyone who thinks Derek is planning on listening to the rest of the sentence is sorely mistaken. He turns on his heel and walks toward where he can detect Stiles' scent under the chemical odor of the hospital. They've changed his room number, but it looks nearly identical on the inside. Stiles lays on the bed, unconscious. His head is wrapped in bandages and gauze layered an inch thick. His usual woodsy scent is muted by the drugs pumping through his system. Derek falls to his knees at the side of the bed. His wolf whimpers, but stays agonizingly silent. There's nothing they can do right now. Stiles isn't in pain, can't even bitch and moan about anything that comes to mind like the usually does. All he can do is sit here and be useless, for no other reason than that he didn't force Stiles to stay home for the damn wyvern fight.

It surprises everyone but Derek, John, and the McCalls when the hemorrhaging in Stiles' brain reaches deadly levels a few hours later. They're able to stabilize him for a few seconds, and what he says in that time throws a curveball at everyone. Just like everything else he does.

"My laptop, Scotty. You promised." He looks over at Derek. "I... didn't mean... to lie. I love you, sourw--"

Derek hears his heart stop before the machine even flatlines. John makes a choking noise-- or is it Scott? Melissa lets out a little gasp, like she's surprised. Derek knows she isn't. The doctor releases an uninterested sigh because to him it's just another dead patient. Derek is vaguely aware of all of this, but it's all white noise.

He wasn't there for the fire.

He wasn't there for Laura's death.

He _killed_ Peter, but that doesn't count because at that point Derek didn't give a fuck about him.

But he just watched his mate die. Heard his heart stop. Heard his last breath. Listened to the blood rushing in his veins come to a standstill. He still _smells_ like Stiles. That's the worst part. The body still smells like pine and earth and autumn, but that underlying spice, the scent that marks him as _mate_... it's gone.

Stiles is gone.

**~oOo~**

Scott needs Derek's help hacking into Stiles' laptop a few days later (not really, he just needs an excuse to smack some sense into the man). He says he doesn't know the password for the computer as a whole, but he made a promise to Stiles that he needs to keep. Derek types in the symbols numbly. _**th3** **P@ck**_

"Now get out."

Derek hasn't left his room since It Happened, and he's not planning on changing that, apparently. Different pack members have come in, trying to make it... _b_ _etter_. He almost clawed Erica's throat out when she said that. They don't understand. None of them understand. They don't know what it's like to have the one person they love most die in front of them. They don't know what it's like to know that it could have been prevented. Scott does, though. Scott was there.

Scott is _still_ here. "You know... The funeral is today."

Derek knows. He doesn't say anything.

"You should go."

Derek growls.

"Not because it's the right thing to do or whatever crap the pack has been feeding you," Scott says, not backing down. "There's something you need to see. And I'm not leaving until you do. Whether or not you go to the... the funeral--" his voice cracks for the first time "--is your choice, but you're going to see this one way or another." _Because I made a fucking promise and I'll be damned if I can't keep it because of you. You and John are hurting the most, but we're hurting too._ "So what's it going to be?"

Three hours later, Derek is shifting in his suit and avoiding eye contact with the rest of Beacon Hills, who showed up to the cemetery to pay their respects to the Sheriff's son. Scott can see the looks they give the man when he sits up front with John, in the row reserved for family. Scott wants to glare them all into submission, but they'll be put in their place soon enough. Stiles and Derek's relationship irked him at first, but Derek _is_ family. The front row is just four seats: John, Derek, Scott, and Melissa. The pack and Deaton are directly behind them, and everyone else is just... there. They're irrelevant, and what they think is irrelevant, and sooner than later, they'll know they're irrelevant.

Only the wolves hear the stutter in Derek's heartbeat when he sees the casket.

There's some no-name priest talking about a happier afterlife, eternal rest, et cetera, et cetera. The pack knows better. If Stiles is still sentient, it's because he's angry. There is no afterlife, no eternal happiness or bliss. Unless there's something unfinished, Stiles is no more. Then it's time for the eulogy, so he calls Scott up to the podium. Scott shifts uncomfortably when he stands there. He's never been comfortable speaking in public, but luckily he doesn't have to say much.

"So... Stiles was my best friend. Actually, he was more like my brother. I could stand up here for hours and tell you all the trouble we got into together, all the times he was there for me, and how amazing a person he was, but he would probably have kicked my ass." Scott takes a breath and attaches a cable to the laptop that's set up in front of him. "But when we were seven, he made me promise to do something when he died, and I'm going to keep that promise. Even I have no idea what's really about to happen."

He clicks the file and a video window pops up with seven-year-old Stiles' face. Scott risks a glance at Derek's face and isn't surprised to see the tears running down it. Scott clicks the play button.

_"Hey everyone! I'm Stiles. But you already knew that, huh? Well, if you're here, I think it means that you care about me, so I love you. Please don't be sad! That's all for now, bye."_

The video jumpcuts to a much older Stiles. Scott would guess that he's fifteen or sixteen. _"Actually, disregard that. I'm going to put it this way. A shit ton of people in here are only here because you want to get on my dad's good side, and don't think I don't know it. If you don't know my real name, get the fuck out. Now. Scott, pause the video until they do."_

Scott does as he's told and a murmur goes through the crowd. No one moves, which pisses him off. "Did you not hear him? Or are you just planning on being assholes? Get out."

More than three quarters of the people present get up and go to their cars. The only people left are the pack and maybe ten police officers on the force. Scott presses play again, feeling vindicated. Most of the people that left were the assholes glaring at Derek.

 _"Good. Now that that's over with, let me make one thing clear. I've somehow made a lot of friends this year, but all of you assholes have the most obnoxious guilt complexes ever."_ Stiles-from-the-past grins at the camera wryly. _"Look, guys. I've had this my whole life. Even if it wasn't the cancer that killed me, unless it was you that pulled the damn trigger, get off your ass. Stop taking credit for something that had nothing to do with you or I'm gonna come back and kick your ass."_

The next jumpcut is to Stiles at seventeen, the way they knew him last. When he speaks, he's whispering in the same tone Scott recognizes from when he would get headaches. _"Heya, bitches! Miss me? Oh shit, that was insensitive, right? Do I have a right to be insensitive about my own death? Anyway, I love you all. Whatever it was that killed me off, it isn't your fault. I was gonna go anyway, whether it was the cancer that did it or a rogue werewolf."_

Most of the front row manages weak grins or tiny laughs, because only Stiles would make an in-the-know joke in his own eulogy, but Derek looks even more miserable. Stiles-from-the-past seems to anticipate this.

 _"Hey, sourwolf."_ Derek's head snaps up and Scott knows that he should probably skip this part and have Derek watch it privately, but he doesn't. Stiles meant for this whole thing to be watched at his funeral. _"I know what you're gonna say, alright? But there's no more you could have done. Not without changing the person I am, and I know that's not what you want. So stop trying to guilt yourself into a coma and let it hurt. You're allowed to hurt too, you know. Eventually, it'll get better. Wanna know why? Because that's just how love works. It hurts like a bitch and then it gets a little better day by day. I love you to the ends of the universe and back and god, it... it hurts like hell to leave--"_ For the first time, the cheerful mask Stiles always kept on cracks and he stumbles over his words a bit, wiping his eyes. _"--but I want you to promise me that you'll try to recover. Because I won't have the chance. I just--"_

There's a noise in the background. It sounds like his window opening and he looks offscreen, then back to the camera quickly. _"I love you, Derek Hale. That's all I wanted to say. Scotty, make sure my dad sticks to his diet."_ He looks offscreen for the last time, schooling his face into an exhausted expression. _"Hey lover. What's up?"_

Its quiet for a moment, then _"My head hurts and Dad's asleep. What do you need?"_

here's a rumble in the background, then Stiles is speaking again. _"Derek. My love. Light of my entire life. It's too fucking early for baking. Come back in a few hours."_

The video ends abruptly.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, not sorry about that ending.
> 
> Major Character Death: Stiles has Meningeal haemangiopericytomas (HPC), which is a tumor of the brain stem. It's a fast growing, malignant tumor that can be operated on. Stiles was diagnosed at the age of seven, and there is an 80% chance of survival for 10 years from diagnosis as long as the tumor is operated on regularly enough to keep it in check. In this 'verse, Stiles has an annual visit to the hospital to do just that. He is not killed by the cancer, but by an operation to remove the tumor that goes wrong because he recently had a concussion. This induces cranial hemorrhaging when the damaged tissue is mistakenly cut into.
> 
> Everything about Stiles' migraines and condition comes from a combination of personal experience and in-depth Google-fu. A family friend of mine had brain cancer and she survived and has been doing well for just over seven years, so I used that experience to outline Stiles'. Meningeal hemangiopericytomas are incredibly rare, only accounting for less than one percent of brain tumors.
> 
> Because we all know Stiles has the shittiest luck ever.
> 
> On that happy note, come find me on tumblr @look-im-just-trash


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